Betrapped
by merduff
Summary: A field trip gone awry. House and Wilson are trapped in a patient's basement.


"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into," Wilson said, looking around as if he expected a portal to appear that would lead them to safety, or at least somewhere other than a dank, cobwebbed basement.

"How is it my fault?" House retorted.

"You were the one who just had to break into your patient's basement in search of nonexistent toxins." Wilson wrinkled his nose. "Though there's probably enough bacteria down here to start another thirteen colonies."

House gave him a point for the allusion, but took two away for complaining. "You could have stopped me," he pointed out. "After all, you're supposed to be the responsible one."

"And you're supposed to be the criminal mastermind," Wilson retorted. "You can break in, but you can't break out. I guess that makes you a half-mad genius."

House deducted a half-point for the insult. "How was I supposed to know it auto-locked and was keyed from the inside? It's a basement, not a prison." He'd made an effort to pick the lock from the inside, but only for show. Wilson had been busy prowling about the back yard when he'd actually opened the door.

"I told you not to close it," Wilson reminded him.

"It would have looked suspicious."

"Which wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't opened it in the first place. Which I also told you not to do." Wilson pulled his cell phone out and frowned at the display. "Still no signal." He walked around the cramped room, staring at his phone as if he were a red-shirted extra studying the tricorder for signs of his impending doom.

"I don't know why you're here if you're just going to be negative."

"When I find something positive about this experience, I'll be sure to mention it." Wilson nudged a packing crate with his foot, testing its solidity before sitting down.

House reluctantly gave him that point and sat down next to him. "It could be worse. You could be in a board meeting talking about staff parking for an hour."

"It was closer to an hour and a half. And we wouldn't have had to spend any time on it at all if some asshole hadn't complained about the handicap spots in the parking garage."

"The parking garage is on the other side of the hospital," House replied. "What's the point of getting a prime spot if I still have to walk half a mile to my office?"

"And skidding across an icy parking lot is a much better option." Wilson looked at his watch. "I have an appointment in an hour, which I'm going to miss unless one of your fellows comes to check on us."

"Better hope it's Foreman," House commented. "The other two can't pick a lock to save their lives." He'd already sent a text message demanding rescue, but he wasn't about to let Wilson know his cell phone had a signal. It served Wilson right for signing up with a crappy carrier.

"No one would have to break in if you just asked your patient for a key."

"Where's the fun in that?" Wilson had a decidedly dull streak when it came to breaking the rules. Or locks.

"Where's the fun in being trapped underground in a room that may or may not be the reason your patient is sick in the first place?"

House was almost positive that the pathology was genetic rather than environmental, but he'd felt like a field trip. When he wasn't whining, Wilson was good company. And it was always fun watching him try to keep neat and tidy while crawling under sinks or digging through garbage.

"Relax," he said. "None of the crap we've found so far will kill us. Why not just sit back and enjoy the moment? If no one comes looking for us in the next half hour, we'll find a way to break down the door. I won't keep your precious patients waiting."

Wilson wasn't mollified. "You promised you'd buy me lunch if I helped you play burglar."

"It's not going to kill you to skip a meal, Ollie," House said, patting Wilson on the stomach. It wasn't as firm as it had been five years ago, but Wilson had filled in, rather than filled out. Still, Wilson had no softer spot than his vanity.

"Oliver Hardy died of a massive stroke after losing 150 pounds in just a few weeks." Wilson had an endless stockpile of movie trivia that he unveiled at every opportunity, most of it only relevant in his own mind. "Stan Laurel never performed again."

"So you're saying if _you_ miss lunch, _I'll_ never practice medicine again."

"Something like that." Wilson grinned. "Or maybe, weak from hunger, I'll tell Cuddy that you were the one who dropped a water balloon on the CEO of Westech's head when he was making a site visit."

It amounted to the same thing, really. House rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a candy bar. He broke it in two and gave the smaller portion to Wilson. "Here," he said. "It would be a shame to deprive the world of my medical genius."

Wilson picked a flake of chocolate away from the nougat and ate it daintily. "When I was in college, I used to buy a chocolate bar during the break in my evening lectures. I'd eat it slowly, flake by flake, making it last the rest of the class. Some weeks, it was the only way I could stay awake."

"Wow. What a thrilling glimpse into your undergrad life. Thank god we had this opportunity to share."

Wilson just nibbled on some nougat. "Maybe next time you'll think twice about dragging me on one of your illegal excursions, trapping me -- literally, this time -- in your insanity."

House doubted it. Every anecdote, no matter how mundane, was a new brush stroke on the mental portrait he was painting of James Wilson. He'd bought himself at least half an hour of uninterrupted Wilson study -- no patients, pages, or paperwork to divide Wilson's attention -- and he had his subject exactly where he wanted him. He even had another candy bar if Wilson started to complain again.

Wilson never needed to know about the basement key, conveniently left under a planter for his fellows to find when they arrived on schedule.


End file.
